AN: TRIGGER WARNINGS for child sexual abuse and graphic depictions of violence. Please proceed with caution.

I'm aware this is a very heavy and Harry-centric chapter, and it may seem like the plot is meandering quite a bit, but I promise there is a direction to this!

Chapter 32

Voldemort stood before a three-dimensional map that dominated the war room. He donned an intense, thoughtful expression for he had been deep in thought for some time, wordlessly and wandlessly moving the tokens that represented his armies around the virtual terrain. Again and again, he tried new formations, occasionally zooming in – the entire map was made of a kind of ominous light and could be viewed from as far or as close as he desired, the tokens resolving themselves into units and eventually individuals – in order to play out hypothetical scenarios and stratagems.

It was many hours later that the Dark Lord could conclude with utter certainty two indelible facts. The first was that the Death Eaters were about to take a considerable upper-hand in the seemingly endless battles playing out across south-east Asia, and perhaps finally crack the Eastern front entirely. The second was that Harry Potter was, once again, correct. The strategy the man had insistently pushed in the last meeting of his inner circle was just the right balance of pragmatic and daring; a sort of pincer-movement combined with clever use of simple warding spells. It would take months to put into place, but crucially it was a move that could work even with the inevitable information leaks that would happen in that time. Voldemort had been non-committal in the meeting, as he was with all strategies upon first suggestion, preferring to play them out himself until he was sure. Usually, despite the many suggestions of his generals, Voldemort would find that his own ideas came out on top when played across the board. That had changed in recent weeks, ever since Potter had joined their ranks.

It was a strange cocktail of frustrating and satisfying. Frustrating, in that Voldemort found it unnerving how quickly his youngest General was outpacing the rest of his circle, the arrogance of the young wizard being that much more grating when it became apparent that it was justified. Satisfying, in that at least so long as Potter continued to be a brilliant strategist, he could persuade himself that the motive behind the rather unorthodox promotion had been entirely practical, a measured response brought about by careful consideration. He could pretend Potter was merely a new and useful tool in his arsenal.

But that wasn't true.

The day that Harry Potter had waltzed into his office and asked that he 'use him' further, Voldemort had – as ever – been torn between cursing the man and respecting the sheer audacity of it. Voldemort rarely tolerated a superior attitude in others because they could rarely back it up; he'd even found that the more cocky a witch or wizard appeared, the more cowardly and unskilled they turned out to be. Potter was, as ever, the exception that proved the rule. He was extremely talented, powerful and intelligent. Still, it was not this that made him cede to the request.

Voldemort had tried not to think too much on his decision that night, telling himself that it was beneath him to spend so much time considering and reconsidering his decision to move a pawn into a different position. Still, he did, because though he was loathe to admit he had not given Harry the position merely because he would be good at it – though he was, more so than Voldemort had ever expected – but rather because he… simply wanted to. There was an energy to Harry Potter that Voldemort found… amusing. He was clever and thoughtful, often offering insightful comments on complex matters unbidden, revealing a deep breadth of knowledge. He was also almost guileless in his humour; laughter was always close to the surface, whatever the circumstance. In others he might have found that daring smile, the inherent playfulness of the young man, to be disrespectful – an indication that they did not fear him as he should be feared – but this was not the case with Harry Potter. Voldemort had always had the feeling that Harry Potter knew exactly the danger he played with, knew exactly who he was dealing with, and simply chose to play anyway. It helped that he was so damned expressive. Strong emotion – something Voldemort had avoided all his years as a potential for weakness – seemed to be the lifeblood of one Harry Potter. All in all, Voldemort found Harry Potter to be refreshing. It was a strange sensation. One Lord Voldemort didn't quite know what to do with.

Complicating it further was the half-spoken prophecy the fates had spoken all those years ago. Though deciphering the words of the frustratingly obtuse beings was difficult, there were some obvious pieces he'd gleaned then and in the two visits he'd paid since. Harry Potter was a danger to his reign, Harry Potter was a powerful ally, and Harry Potter should not be killed 'before the proper time'. They had been very clear on the last point, reiterating on each occasion that in every timeline there was a time and place for Harry Potter to die. Still, it was not this that dominated his thoughts. He had long ago discarded his frustration at being unable to kill the man. No, it was what they had said on his latest visit that filled his mind as he paced the war-room that night.

'Harry Potter is your true key to greatness.'

From the fates, such a statement could mean anything. It could mean nothing. But what really gave Lord Voldemort pause, is that it could mean everything.

Harry could definitely get used to the standard of living in the Imperial Base. After years spent living in tents in jungles and deserts and tundra, moving from place to place with each deployment, the grandeur of his new quarters was a welcome change. He awoke that morning to find the house-elf he'd been assigned had already left his breakfast at the table by window – a delicious full English - and there he enjoyed a leisurely morning, typical of his time here.

He spent the first hour of his waking day penning short missives to various officiants; things he needed completed, reports from the front, etc. When he was done with that, he waited with a book until his 'assistant' Jasper showed up. Assistant was a strong term for the waifish child that tentatively knocked on the doors of his apartment each morning, waiting to deliver his messages and take any other instructions Harry might provide. Still, Harry appreciated the scheme. It had been introduced a year ago at his friend Daphne's request. Children from the orphanages who had shown academic promise were offered a sort of holiday job at the Imperial Base and the other Death Eater headquarters', allowing them to gain work experience, and make connections where their lack of family contacts may otherwise have disadvantaged them.

"Good morning, Commander Potter, sir," the boy – no more than fourteen perhaps – began. His eyes flicked to Harry's and then away. In the short time he'd known the child he had always seemed nervous, skittish even. Harry couldn't say he blamed him, knowing how intimidating the place must be to a boy of his age, especially as the mark about his cuffs showed him to be a muggleborn.

Harry smiled brightly at the boy. "Good morning, Jasper. Not much for you to do today, just a few letters around the base."

Jasper nodded, avoiding eye contact as he approached the table and took the letters quickly. "Yes, sir. Is there anything else?" Once again the boys eyes flicked to Harry's and away. Perhaps he would grow out of this nervous nature. Harry smiled warmly back.

"No that will be all, thank you. I'll see you tomorrow."

When the boy had left, leaving the room so quickly that it was a wonder the remaining papers didn't blow into the air, Harry began getting ready.

His day was a pleasant one. Harry apparrated to the front and spent some time with the Gravers; Jo was doing a marvellous job in command, and now just a few weeks later the visits were hardly more than social calls. Still, he spent some time with them and was relieved to see that his pressure to stop the endless compliance visits had indeed been heeded. He'd thoroughly enjoyed dropping in on Verity to announce that he'd been promoted; the witch had looked ready to shit kittens.

Afterwards, he visited some of the other regiments and had meetings with the Commanders there. These visits had been more varied in the beginning, some Commanders obviously resenting his now superior rank at his young age. That had been resolved relatively quickly, however. Harry had not even had to prove his strength, the Commanders had simply fallen into line when it became clear that Harry wanted their opinions. Opinions on the running of the army, on the current strategies being employed, on the issues they were facing. He reported back to them promptly and took their comments into consideration every time he suggested a new tactic. It was working.

Now Harry was met with, at worst, easy acceptance by the other regiments and their command. In some, he was greeted with outright camaraderie, especially by those who had heard tale of his time in the Gravers.

It was not merely military strategy that he had been working on however, and so in the afternoon he paid a visit to some of the contacts he was developing in the civilian world. Many of them were shady characters, but they were the people who 'heard' things. Some galleons would change hands, some threats made, but the information was worth more than it's weight in gold. He was getting closer to answers about where the leaks were coming from. There were, of course, always going to be information leaks from the Death Eater army – no one, no matter how incompetently compliance tried, could successfully interrogate an entire army of thousands upon thousands of people – but some of the information getting out was privy only to a much smaller audience, and thus of much greater concern.

When his business was finished and he had only an hour or so before their next weekly inner circle meeting, he apparrated back to the base and showered, washing off the smell of back alley pubs and seedy alleyways where his afternoon business had taken him. He pulled on his white shirt and dark briefs in a hurry, his trousers pulled on carelessly and his robes left unbuttoned. He would soon be late, and the Dark Lord did not appreciate lateness. He didn't fancy catching the man's ire today.

Harry walked through the labyrinth of corridors and adjoining rooms that was the east wing of the Imperial Base at a quick pace. He could simply apparrate to his destination of course, but he was hoping to catch Bellatrix on her way in for a quick chat about an upcoming battle in Japan. He'd spent some time discussing it with the commanders there, and there were concerns about the morale of the men.

He had rounded a corner, lost in thought about how he would present the case to the witch, when a sound caught his attention. It was a high, pained noise. A whimper perhaps? Harry paused in the middle of the hall, wondering if he'd mistaken the sound. A moment later, there it was again. It was almost definitely a human sound, a woman perhaps, and certainly not a happy one. Glancing down the curving hallway to his right, he wondered if someone had ran afoul of some of the curses protecting the sealed rooms again, or got themselves into trouble with the generally pleasant but slightly overzealous sphinx that guarded the war rooms. At another low whimpering noise, Harry began to follow the sound. It may make him late to the meeting, but who knew if one day he might need someone to sweet-talk a sphinx for him.

Rounding the corner Harry stopped short, confronted with a sight far more sinister than an angry creature. He stilled, his stomach churning as he took in the sight before him. It was Mulciber, a fellow general in the inner circle and a generally unpleasant wretch that Harry had spent the last weeks avoiding. He was a tall, bulky man with eyes too small for his fleshy face and always wore an expression of barely concealed contempt. That was, unless he addressed the Dark Lord, with whom he was gratingly obsequious. Mucliber was not the one making the quiet, desperate noises of distress however. No, pressed against the wall, half undressed and sporting new, vivid bruises around his hips and neck was a familiar face; Jasper.

Neither Mulciber nor the child seemed to hear him, and Harry took only moments to digest what his eyes were telling him. Mulciber was equally disrobed, pushing his far larger body against the boy with a hand around the boys throat keeping him still. It seemed Mulciber was talking to the child, but Harry was too far away to hear the words. Whatever the man was saying, the boy's face was as pale as a ghost, his hands fisted against the wall behind him. Tears were tracking visibly down his face and Harry could hear his pleading tone from afar.

Harry's stomach clenched as images flashed through his mind. Memories, terrible memories from decades past that did not belong to him, but were seared into his soul nonetheless riveted through him. Something terrible and feral rose up inside him at the sight, something that bayed for blood.

"Mulciber," Harry called, surprised to find his voice calm and steady. His face twisting easily into a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Mulciber stilled, releasing the boy with one hand and beginning to pull up his trousers with the other. When he saw it was Harry, his face relaxed into a solicitous smirk.

"Potter," Mulciber drawled, relaxing in a way that made Harry's jaw tick.

Harry strolled towards him, his posture entirely casual, his face impassive. "So this is how you find your diversions," Harry commented.

Mulciber gave Harry a vicious smile. He hadn't yet released the child, who was shaking visibly.

"Oh the mudblood's been eyeing me up for weeks, so I thought I'd do him the honour of obliging," said Mulciber, taunting the child. He gave Harry a look as though he was in on some very funny joke, and if Harry hadn't been so coldly furious he might have been sick to share such a look with the man.

"Has he indeed?" Harry asked neutrally, his eyes never leaving Mulciber's own dull regard.

Mulciber began to look a little confused – perhaps sensing something amiss - before relaxing when he came to another wrong conclusion. "Oh I see, you fancy a piece of the muggle too eh? Well you'll have to wait your turn," he said dismissively, before he seemed to alight on an idea. "Unless you want to share him?"

Harry grinned at the man, showing teeth. "That depends, Edward, do you like to play rough?"

The man laughed eagerly, shoving the child towards Harry, releasing him in the process. Heartbreakingly, the boy didn't even try to run, simply trembling. "Oh we love to play rough, don't we mudblood?"

Harry's grin turned into something so utterly, nakedly bloodthirsty that the red in his eyes seemed to blaze. "Oh, so do I."

In a moment, he had taken Mulciber forcibly by the arm, pushing the man face first into the stone wall, bending his wrist behind his back at a wholly unnatural angle. The man let out a shrill noise of alarm, and then a deeper groan when his nose broke audibly against the stone. After a moment, a panicking Mulciber tried to grab at his sheathed wand. Harry brought his knee up hard, slamming his wrist against the stone and was rewarded with another satisfying crack. Mulciber yelped, writhing in Harry's hold, but Harry only tightened his grip.

"Do you feel helpless yet, Mulciber?" Harry growled close to the man's ear. At the man's pained noises, the beginnings of inaudible begging, Harry slammed him into the wall again. The man had nothing on Harry's strength; if combat had ever been his talent, he had clearly grown too comfortable in the walls of base. Perhaps he had only ever learned to fight with magic. It didn't even occur to Harry to draw his wand now. He wouldn't 'honour' the man with bothering.

Harry paused only to look at the child, who was staring with wide-eyed horror at the scene before him. Harry roused himself only long enough to say, "go, go to my rooms and await me there." At the boy's terrified look and quick departure, Harry realised he probably looked as frightening as the beast in his grip.

The next ten minutes were not the proudest moments of Harry's life, but nor were they something he would ever be ashamed about. He had, as promised, not lifted his wand once in those minutes – not until it was over - but nonetheless it was only a short time later that he calmly entered the meeting room. He had not bothered to remove the blood from his clothes, or the cuts from his knuckles. It seemed a little counter-intuitive, given what he carried.

Silence fell over the room as every general and the Dark Lord himself turned to stare at Harry, wearing expressions ranging from horror to apathy. When he walked past Mulciber's chair, he politely dropped the severed head into it's rightful place.

"Sorry I'm late," Harry said, cheerfully.

Every eye in the room followed Harry as he took his seat, but initially no one spoke. Harry was seated across from a bemused Bellatrix, who had simply raised an eyebrow at him in the same way she had when he'd been caught out of bed late at Hogwarts. It was Amycus Carrow that eventually broke the shocked silence of the room.

"What the fuck, Potter?" he said, blowing out his breath as though he were the only person who'd noticed the insanity of his entrance.

As if a signal, the man's question caused the room to erupt with noise, demands and accusations and even a couple of drawn wands. Harry was comforted to see that Bella and Lucius were among those who did not seem overly concerned by the wizard's demise. Harry simply sat still, holding eye contact with Bella and a practiced expression of calm apathy donning his features. This was a difficult feat given truthfully, his heart was still banging loudly in his ears, he was still full of a sort of manic energy. Harry had killed many times before, but rarely so brutally, rarely so up close and personal, and never with so little regard for the consequences. He had studiously avoided looking at the Dark Lord as he'd entered.

As the noise grew cacophonous, it was his voice that broke through like a knife through water.

"Silence," the Dark Lord said. His voice was not raised, and yet every person fell quiet instantly. "Would you care to explain yourself, Potter?"

Harry faced him, having had the moment he needed to forget the flesh still embedded beneath his fingernails. He was relieved to see that Voldemort did not look angry; merely curious. Harry knew well enough his next words would decide if the latter became the former, however.

"Yes, my Lord," he said, voice raised so all along the long table would hear him clearly. "I caught Mulciber-" he paused for the space of a heartbeat, before deciding there was no use sugar-coating what had happened. "-I caught him raping a child in the hallway. I dealt with the matter as I thought best."

If the room had been quiet before, now it was possible to hear a pin drop. Muttering broke out, before someone finally demanded, "A child? What child?"

Harry's shoulders tensed at the question. "One of the children sent from the orphanages."

"A mudblood?" spat Barton in his thick French accent, clearly angry and if Harry didn't mistake it, frightened. "You killed one of our number for a mudblood brat?"

There were mutterings of agreement from some, but Harry was pleased to see that a majority simply looked disgusted.

Smith interjected over the small arguments that were breaking out across the room, appealing to the Dark Lord directly. "My Lord, Potter can't be allowed to simply kill us at will! Something has to be done about this, surely..."

Before Voldemort could answer, Harry jumped in with a terse. "Do you fuck kids, Smith?"

Smith gaped, turning so red he was almost purple as he opened and closed his mouth. "What? No- that's – how dare you!"

"Then what are you worried about?" Harry said, tone imperious, cutting.

When argument broke out once more, Voldemort finally said. "Do you have proof of this, Potter?" Again, the man's face was blank. Dispassionate. Although Harry thought for a moment he had seen something flash in the man's deep, red eyes. Fully red today, with none of the blue clinging to his irises.

"I have my memories, my Lord, which I freely submit," Harry said with a bow of his head.

"Then that is an end of this matter," the Dark Lord said simply. When it looked as though the Death Eaters may actually voice their discontent, he added, "I have Death Eaters. Not maddened dogs; the latter are put down." There was ice in his final words, brooking no argument, and none came. "Although next time, Potter, don't show up to my meetings dripping blood on my floor. Go clean yourself up, you are dismissed."

Even Harry wouldn't have dared argue with the wizard in that moment, with a nod, he swept out of the room leaving just as Bellatrix had finished drawing a frowny face over Mulciber's frozen expression of horror with her wand.

Harry felt exhausted by the time he got back to his rooms. The adrenaline was draining from him rapidly, leaving nothing but tired achey feeling in it's wake. He was relieved he'd remembered to cast several powerful scourgifies on himself when he entered his room to find the terrified child waiting in his bedroom. The boy looked close to having a nervous breakdown; his eyes red from tears no longer there, as though he had run out of them in the time Harry was gone. It was clear the child was on the edge of a panic attack, and Harry had stupidly almost forgotten having told him to wait here. As the child remained with his back close to the opposite wall, Harry wordlessly went to his cabinet and drew out two calming draughts, handing one to the shaking child and taking one for himself.

"Drink," he said, simply. The boy obeyed swiftly, as though fearing what would happen if he didn't. It seemed to take the very edge off of the boy's terror, who's trembling became more manageable and who's breaths slowed. Still, he was far from calm.

"Sit," Harry said, gesturing to one of the seats at his table while he took the one opposite, giving the boy plenty of space. Jasper sat quickly, his breath hitching again.

When Harry didn't say anything right away, the boy jumped in, his voice shaking. "Are you-Are you going to- to-" the child looked as though he was about to be sick.

"No," Harry said, firmly and absolutely, eyes hard. He'd known exactly what the boy was asking. "Never. I will never do anything like that to you, Jasper."

The boys eyes widened further, and so many emotions passed through the boys eyes; relief and disbelief warring, as though he desperately wanted that to be true but couldn't quite believe it.

"General… General Mulciber is going to- going to hate me for this," the boy began, tears once again pooling in his eyes that he angrily cuffed away.

"No, he isn't," Harry said simply, his mind slowly settling into calmness as the potion took effect. "Because I killed him."

The boy stared at him, his mouth parting with surprise. "Wh-what?"

"I killed him," Harry said again, patiently. Salazar, he wanted a drink.

"But- But why?" the child asked, his voice fragile now. The relief in his expression was so clear that Harry felt his own eyes stinging.

Harry took a deep breath, before saying, "Because he deserved it. Because what he did to you was so wrong, so abhorrent, that it is impossible for him to be forgiven."

The child was quiet again. He had stopped panting, stopped trembling almost, but now he looked completely startled, as though he expected to wake up at any moment.

"You did it for- for me? Why? I'm… I'm a muggleborn. I-"

"Your blood status doesn't matter a damn," Harry said, trying not to show the poor child how drained he felt. "I'm the son of two blood traitors, and yet here I am. No one deserves what that piece of shit put you through."

The boy ducked his head, his voice once again brittle when he said. "I-It was- It was my fault. He was- He was nice to me at first, I- I thought- He said I seduced him-"

Harry made a raw noise of disgust, barely holding back the bile. "You, Jasper, you didn't do anything wrong. Everything – every single thing that happened was his fault. You are a child; it doesn't matter if you bloody invited him to do it, it would still be his disgusting fault. And you didn't look like you were inviting it to me anyway."

"No!" the boy said quickly, horrified. "I didn't want- I didn't ask him to-"

"I know," Harry said, before Jasper could get anymore riled up. "I know you didn't, I'm just saying it wouldn't matter if you had. None of this was your fault, and this will never happen to you again."

They were quiet for some time then. Harry got up and brought the boy some water, whilst he sat down with a firewhiskey. After several minutes, Jasper had visibly calmed himself. It looked as though he was finally catching up with the many emotions running through his mind.

"He's really gone?" Jasper finally asked, his voice stronger and clearer.

"Straight to hell," Harry confirmed. Jasper nodded, exhaling like some great weight had left him.

"What happens now? Will I-" he paused, and Harry saw him collecting himself. "Will I be in trouble?"

Harry shook his head. "No, you aren't in trouble. First off, I'm going to take you to St Mungos tomorrow for a check up. After that, we're going to sort you out with a mind healer."

"A mind healer?" Jasper asked, slightly alarmed.

"They can help you better than I can with this," Harry said, running his hands through his hair. "You've gone through something terrible, and you will need support to get through it."

Jasper looked like he might argue, but then simply nodded. More silence ensued, and it was a long while later that the boy finally said;

"I had thought this job might help me get a good job after Hogwarts. Now every one is going to know what happened. I haven't got a prayer now. Even if I get into DE after I graduate. My life is over."

It was as though a different boy was before him then. Tired, traumatised and cynical yes, but in the absence of outright terror it was clear that there was an intelligent young man there.

"No one is going to know, Jasper. I didn't name you. Besides, you will have a job. You'll have whatever job you bloody want."

The boy offered him a sad smile then, the first time he had seen him smile at all. "With respect, Commander Potter, everyone knows you have to know people to get a good job. Have to be from the right family. I don't know anyone, I'm no one."

"You are not no one," Harry snapped, then immediately calmed himself and held out his hands in a placating gesture when the child looked alarmed. "I'm sorry. You're not wrong about how the world works, Jasper, and right this second I can't change that. But I can change things for you, right now."

"What do you mean?" Jasper asked, confused.

"I can adopt you."

Jasper stilled once more, gaping. "Adopt me? What- why would you want that?"

The mistrust in the child's eyes was palpable, and broke another piece of Harry's heart. "Because I can't fix the world in a day, and I can't make it so that what happened to you never happened even though I desperately wish I could, so this is the best I can do. I'm rich now, and I'm a General of the Death Eaters. I'll train you myself, and you'll have my name, and no one will ever hurt you again so long as I live. It's your choice, Jasper, but whatever I can give you I will. I know I can't be your Father, wouldn't have the first idea how to do that, but I can be your mentor. Your guardian."

The child stared at him with wide eyes. "Why would you do all this for me?" He asked, close to tears again but if Harry wasn't mistaken, they were tears of relief. Those of some long held hope to be rescued finally being fulfilled.

"Because you deserve so much better than you've had," Harry would be crying himself, had years of military discipline not given him the control he had.

They talked of details then, of process. Harry would take Jasper to the mind healers and they would spend some time getting to know one another. Harry would arrange for some rooms to be adjoined to his own for the school holidays, and would have meetings with his teachers. He hadn't known he'd make this decision until he'd said it, and yet he'd never been so resolute. That boy had become his responsibility, his charge, and he didn't regret it for a moment. The boy was sleeping now, back in his own room in the base, which Harry had heavily warded so that Jasper could sleep easier.

In his own bed, Harry tossed and turned. The boys words haunted him. For years, Harry had been plotting and planning. Yet never had he felt such desperate urgency before now. He's just a mudblood. You have to know people. Who cares about a mudblood brat? The words swam in his mind, and a fierce feeling was settling in his chest. The way of things as they stood could go on no longer, and Harry needed to pick up the pace. He was under no illusions; he could save Jasper, but that wasn't enough. There were thousands of Jasper's out there.

I know this was a very dark chapter, but I hope you still enjoyed it.